


Indictments

by casstayinmyass



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Opening, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angsty Schmoop, Bottom Blore, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Horny Blore, Internalized Homophobia, Lombard Ships It, M/M, Mutual Pining, Top Armstrong, Vera Ships It, angsty ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A party of eight guests arrive on an island, and one detective can't keep his eyes off one doctor. Spoiler alert: the doctor likes it. Basically a what-if-it-went-like-this Armstrong/Blore lead up-divergent coda for the series. </p><p>(or the one where Vera and Phillip conspire to get them together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I kinda rewrote the entire beginning with Blorestrong... yeah...

Blore didn't know what he was expecting when he came to this island. He didn't really know why he came in the first place, only that he finally arrived at the conclusion that taking a frivolous weekend not only provided the opportunity to wear dapper clothing and the stylish little bowtie he had splurged on and purchased for himself, but to get out of his shell a little. It was no secret that he was an introvert- a little shy, a little flighty- and more than a little socially inept; but he was excited to finally have some time to enjoy himself. That is, until he came face to face with the man across from him on the boat to Soldier Island.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and reddish hair. His mustache was full, his eyes squinting through the mist coming off of the sea in a way that made Blore squirm in his seat.

"Ants in your pants, my friend?" a pretty young blonde man chuckled from beside him, nudging the inspector. Blore tightened up a little, even more than usual; the man was pretty, yes, but not someone he would ever go for. He opted not to answer, and went back to staring at the older man.

"What the sod are you staring at?" Blore heard, and turned to see the same man from beside him staring back in question.

"You would do well to keep to your own business,” a man with thinning, combed over hair stepped in, sending a nod Blore's way, and Blore was eternally grateful. The young man next to him huffed dismissively, running a hand through his blonde waves.

Blore’s mustache twitched as he studied the man across from him, trying to imagine what a good, strapping name he had.

_Donald... John... Hugh..._

His thoughts were interrupted once again when the older of the only two ladies on the boat spoke up.

"How much longer until we reach the island?" she asked, and a man with dark hair and even darker eyes tilted his chin up a little.

"Getting seasick, ma'am?" he teased. He had an Irish accent, and Blore noticed that the younger woman at the bow of the boat took interest in this. The older women simply pursed her lips at the young man, and settled her hands back in her lap as she awaited an answer.

"However long it takes!" the driver retorted in a rather uncouth manner, spitting over the side of the boat in punctuation, and the lady made a face... Blore could also feel himself recoil a little at the action.

"Sea-dwellers have a language all of their own," the man who had come to his aid earlier whispered with a smirk, and Blore nodded. The only guest who had not spoken yet was an elderly man sitting by the back of the boat, staring calmly out at the rifting waters surrounding them. The older woman was watching Blore like a hawk when he turned back, a stare that made him feel very uncomfortable indeed- he decided to let up on his interest in the man, lest he be suspected. 

There were no times for introductions before they did reach the island, but Blore assumed those would happen indoors, anyway, what with this nasty storm swelling overhead. When they reached the island, the object of Blore’s gaze rose up, fixing his jacket a little and licking his lips.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Blore,_ he thought, _you haven’t even been in a boat with him for longer than twenty bloody minutes, and you’re already giving yourself away._

And he couldn’t do that- oh no, he could not. Never would he ever let these seven strangers in on his secret… unless one just… happened to find out one way or another, which shouldn’t make Blore as hot under the collar as it did.

“Sir? Sir, would you?” Blore heard from behind him as they climbed the hill, and turned to see the oldest man of the bunch, a tall fellow with white hair and tired blue eyes. Blore looked down at where he was tapping his suitcase with a cane.

“I would be very grateful,” he said softly with a kind smile, and Blore sighed, picking it up with his own and attempting to balance the heavy weight out on both arms. He hadn’t exercised enough lately… that was something he would have to get back to when he got home. Something to take his mind off of that day in-

“Welcome to Soldier Island!” a lanky, pale man with sunken eyes called. Beside him, a woman with a dark dress and stringy red hair cast her gaze downward. He showed the bunch the way to the house, even though it wasn’t hard to find when it was the only structure on the lonesome island.

Blore looked up at it- it was huge. He couldn’t wait to put his things down in the room, so he hurried upstairs when the man- who had introduced himself as the butler, Rogers- showed them in.

Behind him passed the man with the dark eyes from the ship, following the blonde man and the young woman, retiring to their rooms to prepare for dinner.

A little bit later, everyone soon began to trickle into the sitting room, drinks in hand, while Blore stood in front of his mirror, a little nervous looking at his reflection.

“Good evenin’,” he said to himself in his cockney accent, “I’m William Blore." He deflated, shaking his head. "No, no… Inspector Blore. No, that’s… _ahem_. I shouldn't give me name out... _Davis_. I’m Davis.”

Settling for that, the DI smiled pleasantly, adjusting his bowtie, and went to exit the room and join the others. Once down a level and in the sitting room, he made himself comfortable near the back with a glass of scotch amidst the introductions. From these he learned that the man with the dark hair was Phillip Lombard, the nice man from the boat was General John Macarthur, the older man was Justice Lawrence Wargrave, the insufferable young man was Anthony Marston, the young woman was Vera Claythorne, the older woman was Emily Brent... and the man previously sitting across from him was Dr. Edward Armstrong.

 _A doctor_ , Blore thought with a swallow, _he just radiates wealth and stature, and that shouldn't be as hot as it is.._. With a breath in, he willed himself to see the doctor only as an acquaintance, as there was nothing that suggested otherwise at the moment.

“And you are?” he heard, and for a second time that day, Blore was snapped out of his mental dream world. Looking up, the detective smoothed out his lapels.

“Davis. I’m Davis,” he repeated as he had rehearsed with his friendly smile, and Miss Brent spoke up.

“What’s your first name?”

Blore was momentarily thrown. _Of course he should have included that in his… how socially awkward could he be?!_

“Ch-Charles,” he answered, nodding agreeably, and Lombard smirked, swishing his whiskey around in his snifter of fine crystal.

“Well, tubs,” he said, “What do you do for a living?”

Blore didn’t know how to respond. Did he feel comfortable revealing his occupation to these people, especially to a man who had just almost blatantly called him fat? Which, for the record, he most _certainly_ was not. He settled upon a cryptic response.

“I work for the law...” He almost tacked on a "s'pose," with that revelation, but caught himself before he could let his lower class accent shine through.  

“Ah, just as the good judge here does,” Macarthur smiled, gesturing to the older man with his tumbler of brandy. William nodded to Lawrence with respect, and the judge nodded back.

“Policeman, hm?” Marston drawled, looking Blore up and down cynically, “Well, well… should’ve known from the stick up your ass.”

“Please!”  Armstrong exclaimed in shock.

"Oh, excuse me-" Marston smiled, " _baton_."

Blore huffed in return, clenching his jaw but upholding his composure for the sake of the ladies. “Not a policeman, no.”

“Well, what then?” Miss Brent asked, sitting forward in her armchair. Just then, Rogers entered, announcing dinner was served, and Blore exhaled, loosening his bowtie as everyone followed to the dining room.

Armstrong sat next to him. It was inevitable to avoid feeling some sense of apprehensiveness when he took the seat beside, but Blore only hoped he wouldn't be caught gawking again, at the very least.

Dinner was no better than their folly in the lounge- squabbling ensued the moment Marston brought up the irrelevant fact that he had an expensive Jensen and Armstrong had aggressively identified it as the one that ran him off the road. The clench of the doctor's jaw and the fierce look in his eye as he spoke had Blore centering his napkin over his lap, and the detective began to worry that he was too queer for his own good.

_Was that even possible?_

The chatter continued throughout dinner, and at some point, Blore had let it slip what he did for a living, which then led to his accent drop, which then led to… well, goodbye false cover. Nobody seemed to mind much, though, which saved him some embarrassment, at least. The conversation following continued only to a minimum, until people began to question where their host was once everyone had finished.

"Held up, 'm afraid," Rogers provided as he cleared the plates, "No telephone on the island to contact us with."

"Mm," Armstrong said, "Well, if they aren't here by tomorrow morning, I shall be the first on the boat back."

"Regrettably, I'm afraid that won't be possible either, sir," Rogers admitted, hands tightly woven behind his back, "The next boat will arrive on Monday morning, eight AM sharp."

"And why, pray tell, is that?!" Armstrong asked, somewhat belligerently.

"Naricott doesn't commute these next two days, sir."

"I'm sure it's perfectly reasonable for a man to take the weekend for leisure," Wargrave smiled softly in good nature.

"Well, I for one, do not wish to wait on a host that is not bound to arrive," Armstrong said, standing up and setting his napkin down.

"Don't you think it would be polite to wait up, anyway?" Macarthur asked.

"Oh, the old boy's probably just _exhausted_ from the trip," Marston commented with a winning grin, "Do let him retire."

"Now, see here!" Armstrong shot back, now red in the face, "When you've run a business for as long as I have, you'll understand that hard work requires time taken for relaxation and, and... the repossession of _sanity_!"

"Calm down," Marston muttered, smile still on his lips, "Looking a little red in the face there, Armstrong, and we don't want you to get too worked up, lest you have a heart attack and _leave_ us all."

Blore raised his eyebrows, and the general once again cut in.

"I say," Macarthur frowned, "The doctor has a point, and I see it. You have yet to convince me of _your_ manners, young man."

Marston still smiled in amusement. "I wasn't put here to convince anyone of anything. I came here for a house party."

"Hate to agree with the antichrist over there," Lombard muttered, shifting in his seat to look up at Rogers, "But weren't there at least festivities outlined? Even excluding the Owens?"

"Not particularly, sir," Rogers said uncomfortably, "I was to await further instruction. May I… suggest brandy and cigars for the gentlemen for now?"

"Well," Wargrave said, "I'd very much like to take Rogers up on that. I'm not the only one, am I?"

There were mumbles of agreement, and even Armstrong rose in the direction of the lounge room.

"Where are the women to go?" Miss Claythorne asked, and Blore noted a hint of irritancy in her voice.

"To the parlor, madam," Rogers said, extending his hand in the direction of the sitting room for the ladies. Miss Claythorne hummed, following Miss Brent reluctantly. Blore guessed she wasn't a fan of this particular after-dinner tradition- anyway, the two women ended up joining the rest of the men in the lounge in any case. Once in the hallway, Blore tried not to ogle Armstrong for too long, and he dropped his handkerchief, which was a lucky diversion. Blore bent down, and at the same time, so did Armstrong in an attempt to help.

"Here, let me-"

"Oh, no, I've got it-"

"Please, I insist-"

"It fell closer to me anyways-"

Their hands brushed, and on the way up, they accidentally hit each other.

"Agh," Blore groaned, holding his nose and looking to the ceiling.

"Oh, I apologize!" Armstrong gulped, "Here, I'm a doctor, I can help."

I know you're a doctor."

"What?"

"I know you're a bloody doctor, everyone knows what everyone is here." _Except what I am._

"That's right... well, do you require assistance?"

Blore shook his head, throwing in a scowl just for good measure, and Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, close your bloody doctor's bag, I'm fine," Blore snapped, then realized his practiced accent had fallen away.

"Ehm... all my thanks nonetheless sir," he corrected, and Armstrong frowned.

"Anytime…"

They retired to the lounge, separating upon entry. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Things were tense between Blore and Armstrong in the lounge... and not hostile tension, either. Armstrong also felt his gaze drawn toward Blore’s every time he had a spare moment, and it was frustrating for him. He came to this island to relax, not to be chased by, by… _queer thoughts!_ He eventually got bored with the chatter in the lounge. He was old enough to remember the war, but he did not like to talk constantly on the subject, as the older men always did. He didn’t wish to chat about anything heavy in particular, really- he wasn’t a very social person in everyday life anyway, much less at parties. That Blore fellow… he looked like a deer in headlights, about to be run over by a bulldozer. He was hiding something; it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes or even a reader of Sherlock Holmes to figure that out, though Armstrong could proudly say he’d read one… _half_ of a Holmes mystery. Well… nothing to brag about, really.

“You seem distant, doctor,” Miss Brent said in her clipped tongue, “Anything particular on your mind?”

 _Only your busybody antics, Miss Brent._ "Only your lovely choice of pearls, Miss Brent," Armstrong smiled indulgently, knowing flattery always won over women like her.

"Kiss ass," Marston chuckled through a sip of gin, and Armstrong thought about throttling the smarmy prat. _Would anybody here miss him? Truly?_

"You, Mr. Marston, should take your cues from Mr. Armstrong," Miss Brent huffed, a faint blush on her cheeks, "He's a gentleman."

 _I wouldn't be if I could get that damn attractive detective in the sheets..._ Armstrong thought, then frowned, running a hand through his auburn curls. What sort of thought was that? An alarming one, certainly. But... not all that inaccurate. The doctor glanced haphazardly over at the drinks on the table, fancying just a drop... _just one drop, to rid himself of this nonsense..._

"Nice save, doctor," he heard an Irish voice suddenly say to him, and Armstrong turned.

"P-pardon?"

"With Brent, that was solid gold."

"I can't say I know what you mean, Lomb-"

"Oh, cut it. You've been staring at tubs over there all evening, you didn't think someone would notice?" Armstrong wondered why Lombard called Blore that name... the detective was one of the thinnest of the lot. "Actually," Lombard went on, "I thought it would be Marston who outed you before me with some tasteless joke, but luckily, I put the pieces together first."

Armstrong felt the sweat bead on his forehead under the younger man's brooding gaze. Lombard _knew_. How? Was he _really_ that obvious about it? Maybe the Irishman just had an extremely keen eye. Yes, that must be it.

"Mr. Lombard, if you please-"

"You're really going to deny it, aren't you?" Lombard smirked, thankfully keeping his voice respectfully low, "When he's been doing the exact same ogling you all night?"

Armstrong's mouth went dry. Blore had been looking at him as well? _Oh, you sound like a bloody school girl_ , he scowled inwardly.

"Inner turmoil, eh?" Lombard asked, forever penetrating his thoughts, still smirking as he turned to face the guests while leaning against the table.

"What do you know of it?" Armstrong muttered, and Lombard shrugged.

"Nothing, really."

"So you're a sociopath."

"Nice try, making this about me- we're on the subject of which one of us is queer and has his sights set on a one William Blore."

"I am not a _queer_ ," Armstrong hissed scathingly, but after a pointedly raised eyebrow from Lombard, the doctor winced, beginning to mop his brow and quietly freak out.

"You won't tell anyone, will you? It will ruin my practice, it will ruin my life, I might as well-"

"Calm down," Lombard sighed, "Unlike some people here tonight, I couldn't care less where you toss your... eh, who you've got it for," he corrected. "Just fly below Miss Brent's radar effectively, and you've got it made."

Armstrong frowned at the obliging Irishman. "Why are you _helping_ me all of a sudden, you… smug _bastard_?"

Lombard smiled. "Might as well attempt to make a few friends out of enemies before the shit hits the fan. And oh... at a party like this one? You know it will."

Watching Lombard walk off to rejoin the others, Armstrong blinked. _Whatever that means..._ Perhaps his initial impression of Lombard had been wrong... Though, just because he was more _progressive_ than most, doesn't make him any less of a cocky, guiltless bastard.

Over at the other side of the room, Vera had approached Blore with a snifter of brandy.

"Thought you could use this," she smiled amiably, and Blore took it suspiciously, as he did anything.

"Why?"

Vera shrugged. "Well, you just looked a little uptight, that's all. You'll have to forgive me, I'm not sure what to call you... your name is William, yes? Do you get Will, or...?"

"Bill," Blore muttered, mustache twitching as he took a reluctant sip of the brandy, "I get Bill... I s'pose."

"Enjoying yourself, Bill?"

"What is this, an interrogation? I've 'ad enough of those, thanks."

"I'm only making conversation," Vera chuckled, and Blore sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Bloody hell- sorry, Miss Claythorne, I... I've been a nasty git to you, I'm 'fraid. Allow me to make it up to ya?"

"No need. Call me Vera."

Blore narrowed his eyes slightly, wondering why she was suddenly so cozy with him. _Surely she didn't want..._

Blore straightened, staring over at the doctor again. If she was going that way with this, maybe he could use her as a cover tonight so that people wouldn't suspect him and Armstrong of anything. _That would be helpful, indeed!_

"Fancy a dance, then?" he murmured, feeling all kinds of wrong asking that of a woman, but...

"Yes, I'm sure he would," Vera murmured right back bluntly, taking a sip of her own brandy. Blore just about choked.

"I don't know what you're- I don't- bloody accusa- I nevah-! I don't wanna dance with Armstrong, the soddin' pretty bugger!"

"I never said his name," Vera chuckled, “And I never said he was pretty.” As Blore went red in the face, the young woman put a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. I think it's sweet. Just... try not be too overt about it, and things may work in your favor."

"I don't know what you're implyin'," Blore retorted stubbornly, "I ain't no poof, y'know."

"Hm, well- if it makes any difference, he's been staring at you since the boat," she smirked. Blore looked up, and she nodded seriously. "With _ridiculous_ doe eyes, too." She left a stuttering Blore with a pointed gaze, and the detective loosened his collar a little. _Was it getting hot in here? All these blasted bodies…_ He peered around furtively before sneaking _just one more_ glance over Armstrong's way. They locked eyes, then both quickly snapped their attention somewhere else.

Around midnight, it seemed a fairly appropriate time to halt the festivities for the night. Miss Brent had gone to bed long ago along with the Rogers, leaving the group to pour their own- and that they did. Marston was, in every sense of the word, shitfaced- as in, ass over tit tashered, and his face looked like shit; Lombard was headed that way too, though the brunette was an attractive drunk in contrast. The general had had a few but up-kept his gentlemanly manner, of course, walking Miss Brent to her door, and Vera was stumbling a little up the stairs by now, closely monitored by "Phillip". Interesting how a group of total strangers could be brought together by something as petty as distilled wheat. The judge, amongst it all, had managed to remain sober enough for the rest of them, and he watched in subtle amusement the others finding their way to bed.

And that left Armstrong and Blore, standing out in the hallway like a pair of tongue-tied idiots.

"Where... do you practice, doctor?" Blore mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. The conversation seemed out of place, given that they were standing in an empty, dark hallway bereft of any candles and lit only by the raging lightning outside that Blore only just noticed.

"Oh... I have a practice on..." Armstrong began, though he found himself lost in his words.

"Sounds… erm… pretentious," Blore murmured, words almost slurring together, "Just like you..."

"What... what _are_ you, Mr. Blore?" Armstrong suddenly asked, and the detective grabbed a hold of the doctor's lapels.

"Someone who's gonna be bloody sorry tomorrow morning," he remarked, and dragged the shell-shocked Armstrong in for a kiss. Sure, he was forward when he was the least bit intoxicated… but he couldn’t help it when lips like those were that close to his already.  So, those lips happened to be male. Didn’t mean anything.

"What was that?" Armstrong asked as they broke away, breathing heavily with wild, wide eyes.

"That was me, bein' the bigger man," Blore muttered, and Armstrong huffed, grabbing Blore in again and pinning him to the wall.

"Yeah," Blore muttered, “Your turn.”

He ground his hips into where Armstrong had taken to rubbing in between his legs, rather roughly- Armstrong had the feeling the detective liked to be manhandled. He eventually stopped to pull Blore with him to his room, simply because it was closer than the other man’s, not breaking the kiss apart. Of course, they were too busy snogging to notice Phillip and Vera drunkenly high-fiving behind the door to Vera's room.

"You got oil?" Blore rasped, fairly sobered from the shock of actual, real physical contact with the man he’d been lusting after for hours. So it wasn’t just him and his right hand tonight, as he had expected. Things just got interesting.

Armstrong pushed him down on the bed, getting out his doctor's bag. Looking up at the man standing in front of him, Blore wondered when the last time he was this hard was. Probably that one time he hired a male escort... the _one_ time, mind!... but this was better. This was _Dr. Edward Armstrong_ , a gorgeous, virile man he had known for less than one _day_ , about to fuck him, and Blore just about came at that thought; that didn’t make him a queer, though. Not at all. Someone who just… appreciated a nice body. _A very, very nice body…_

 Pressing the heel of his hand into his erection, Blore effectively kept himself at bay.

The best part was, he could actually let himself _enjoy_ this; at least for the night. He was on an island with other people he didn't know, who would most likely never see him again after this. Besides, mornings were for second guessing, not torrid hours of the night like these.

 _A relaxing weekend,_ Armstrong thought to himself as he looked down at Blore, ready for him up against the headboard, _that was the point of this weekend._ _Looks like I got something better._ Perhaps this is what he needed to relax properly, anyway...

"Get on with it," Blore breathed, "Before I change me mind."

Armstrong fumbled with his belt buckle, and let out a sigh of relief when he had freed himself... he had never allowed himself to feel this good with another man, so he hoped he could keep it up long enough for Blore. Passionate kissing resumed, Blore's hands snakes their way down Armstrong's chest between them, then down and behind him to grab his ass. Armstrong's hot breath warmed Blore's neck, triggering the detective to reflexively expose his nape with the undoing of a few buttons and his slim tie.

"I've never wanted anything... as much as I want you now," Armstrong murmured, and Blore mumbled something muffled into the pillow Armstrong had him pressed into. He was telling the truth... even the liquor, that was a different story altogether. All he knew was, fucking Blore was the only thing he wanted to do all night.

After the oil from his medical bag had been used to prep at Blore's instruction, Armstrong began with gentle thrusts to ease Blore into the rather large adjustment. The doctor groaned at how good it felt to be inside someone without the feminine arching or moaning or the soft touch of a female in general. It was strange to hear his name uttered _that way_ in a man’s voice, yes... especially that cockney trill… but it seemed Blore had experience with this type of thing, judging by the way he was- _ohhh, that._...

"Dear God, that's good," Armstrong whispered. They continued working up a pace, breathing together, heaving together, trying to keep their noises to a minimum because _wasn't Miss Brent's room next door?_ Lord have mercy if it was, but just Blore's luck, of course he had chosen the religious maniac's temporary neighbor.

Armstrong was close; Blore could feel it in the way the doctor's thrusting became faster, deeper, _ah-_

"Blore..." Armstrong hissed, "That's wonderful... amazing... oh, you look so-"

"Oi, you're a chatty one," Blore muttered, and Armstrong wiped down his face, breath ragged.

"I can't even help it... so good..."

"Hold it together, I'm not... just a little... little longer..."

"Please..."

_Goodness, Miss Brent must be having a field day. Fancy they interrupted her prayers?_

A few more deep thrusts, and Blore came all over the sheets, body shiny with exertion, along with Armstrong not a few seconds later.

"How are you so good at that?" the detective panted, "Best bloody shag I've ever had..." Armstrong adjusted his tie haughtily, which he apparently hadn't taken off.

"Well… I'm not inexperienced in that department," he smirked, ego flaring, "My success rate with women is just as precise as my surgical reputation."

Blore huffed. “It takes a lot to get me where I was just now. And I ain’t no _girl_.”

“I know,” Armstrong whispered with a smile, voice dropping down so low it was barely a breath, “I never would have come that hard for a girl.” The doctor collapsed beside him after making doubly sure the door was locked.

"Well... what a weekend this will be," Armstrong murmured, using his arms as a pillow as he stared at the blustering rain outside the room’s second floor bay window.

"Yeah- I'll have a right good time try'na get up tomorrow," Blore grumbled, but he couldn't shake the giddiness he felt at the favorable progression of the night.

"You may have trouble," Armstrong grinned, "But never fear, Mr. _Davis_ -” his tone was teasing- “you have a doctor at your disposal for the night."

“Eh, I may just take you up on that offer at least twice more tonight…”

Just as they were leaning in again, an ear-splitting high frequency noise sounded, making the two men cover their ears with grimaces.

_"Ladies and gentlemen... silence, please."_

Blore frowned, and Armstrong's mouth opened apprehensively at the strange new voice.

_"You are charged with the following indictments."_

The two stared at each other in alarm, and scrambled to get their clothes on- this couldn't be good.

Perhaps Lombard really had been right about the strange weekend they had ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the bulk of the series, around the drunken party night. Last chapter! ^^ :*
> 
> (Kind of a sad ending... lol sorry, at least I didn't kill anyone. Canon does it for me)

Maybe they were in hell. Maybe that’s what this was. They were being punished for their crimes, each and every one of them- six were dead, they were next. This night, this… strange, mirage of alcohol and cocaine was just a distraction. It always was. Voices echoed in Blore’s head, voices crushed Armstrong’s mind, and there was no way they were getting off this island. At least, Blore thought so. Armstrong, on the other hand… he knew a way off, and hiding it from Blore was killing him, but it was for his own good. How could he know if Blore wasn’t the killer? He intended to get out of hell, whatever that took- even if it took staging a murder by gunshot and forming an alliance with the judge.

Blore and Armstrong danced slowly, the weight of each other in their arms painfully comforting. Armstrong couldn’t do this anymore. Not when he had a chance. He couldn’t be dragged down, he couldn’t die for this. Blore would understand. Or not… Armstrong forced himself not to care.

The doctor's lips barely grazed the detective's, but instead of the warm, satisfying rush Blore was expecting from a kiss, he opened his eyes to find Armstrong distanced.

"I can't do this... not when-" Armstrong stopped himself from revealing his secret, and in a sudden rush of force, shoved the intoxicated Blore off of him. Standing there in shock, swaying a little and partially blinded by the silly hat on his head, Blore exhaled any traces of arousal. That was not how he expected this night to go. Alcohol usually led to sex and mistakes… like this whole fucking weekend. Bloody hell, this was not how he expected this _weekend_ to go! All one big mistake. One _last_ mistake. 

Now, if he was being honest with himself… there was nothing the murderer could do now to him that he would be particularly put off by; nothing could hurt more than the doctor's cold, unwarranted rejection.

Armstrong watched Blore stumble off upstairs to no doubt either pass out or cry himself dry, stared at the abandoned hat beside him on the ground at his feet. Philip and Vera danced, high and blissfully unaware at the other side of the room. They had been the reason for their first night together… interesting. _Maybe it was them. Maybe this whole thing was one big conspiracy, all their plotting._ Maybe that was just the alcohol talking. Armstrong couldn’t think straight- but he knew he had made the right choice. He would meet Wargrave at the cliffs tonight, with or without his heart in check. Make no mistake.


End file.
